


Sundew

by elen (elennaen)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elennaen/pseuds/elen
Summary: Harry Potter is sinking into post-war meaninglessness and Pansy Parkinson just so happens to be serving happiness in a vial.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks so much for reading.  
> 

Pansy is really supposed to get going.

She drums her freshly manicured nails - deep red, classy shape - demonstratively on the black marble bar, not that it seems to be noticed by the slow as shit bartender what with the stuffy crowd and the loud electronic trap playing.

When he finally turns to her, she lifts her eyebrows in way of greeting and orders an Oval Martini, cherry instead of olive. Stiffly yells when the bartender doesn't get it the first time and instead leans across the bar to hear her.

He has that sort of post-hipster look; dark honey hair swept sleek, or sweaty, into a small bun, simple over-sized t-shirt on, and an obscure tattoo on his inner left forearm that made Pansy flinch for a split-second when she first saw it, before she recalled that this is a Muggle nightclub, and also the war is over, and also it really shouldn't matter to her anymore.

The club is probably considered nice, she senses, and expensive, given the way it's filled with beautiful people and quality liquor and manages to somehow stay clean looking despite the drunk crowd.

Pansy eyes the dance-floor, trying to keep track of the rough whereabouts of Daphne so they can make a quick exit once she's done conducting business.

 _Business_. It sounds positively vile put like that in her head. _Friendly favour_ is more like it, really. After all, she is not conducting any sort of business at the moment, does not need to work at all in fact. There was a war, her family chose the greedy middle ground, and they made bank for it. Something to proudly share with the grandchildren, surely. Her own missteps would be forgotten by then.

Finally, across the room at the door, she spots a head of sandy hair and clutches the small, folded square of parchment tighter in her hand as she pays and grabs her drink. When she turns back, her target is headed for a table in the far-left corner, followed by - oh.

Oh well.

Cormac McLaggen is a common sight around Seamus these days, but behind him the Boy Who Lived looks absolutely like a confused puppy, and the sight of him startles Pansy more than she cares to admit.

She has seen him since the Battle of Hogwarts of course - rarely, but the face of the Saviour is impossible to avoid entirely after all. That look on his face now, despite the permanent golden skin, makes him look like he hasn't been out and around people for long. But then, most nightclubs are probably overwhelming to the _Golden Boy_.

Pansy would snort, but that is not something she does, so instead she feels herself smirk ever so slightly and lifts the martini to her lips.

Seamus' eyebrows crease together as he glances around, until he spots her and smiles. Pansy briefly raises her glass to him.

He moves towards her, then seems to realize he has Potter in tow and whispers something to the taller man who gradually looks increasingly confused. It would be funny, it really would, except they're both still moving towards her, and Pansy gets the odd urge to flee.

Seamus nods to the side in a manner that is not as inconspicuous as most likely intended, and Pansy heads after him as he splits from Potter and makes his way to the end of the bar.

"Hey Pansy, sorry, bit of a delay at Cormac's, I swear that man spends longer getting ready than Lavender, and that's sayin' something."

"Finnigan," she greets and casually hands him the square of parchment. "It should be good for a week, maybe."

"You're a lifesaver, thanks mate. My regular supplier is completely dry."

Pansy smiles in response while Seamus tugs the note into the back pocket of his faded blue jeans.

He looks directly at her then with a boyish smile and winks, "Besides, we want the good stuff."

_We?_

"Tell him I sent you, I am certain you'll get a discount," Pansy replies, controlled smile widening parallel to Seamus'.

He tilts his head, playing smile on his face. "You know, if you hadn't been such a bitch in school-"

"Oh, but I was," she interjects, smile turning smirk, cutting off his walk into reminiscence - it could only end poorly. He stills, smile turning genuine.

"Thanks, Parkinson, I owe you."

"Be careful with that," she says and empties her glass. She puts it on the corner of the bar, grabs her cherry and plops it carefully between her teeth, biting down as she takes her leave. Just as she does, Potter walks up to Seamus, carefully carrying three lowball-drinks that look strangely small in his hands.

He is obviously staring at her, which - well. In the practical interest of self-preservation, Pansy looks straight past him, hollows her cheek momentarily as she pulls off the stem of the cherry and throws it carelessly on a used napkin on the bar before making her way directly to the dancefloor with a straight back.

"Was that Pansy Parkinson?"

"Yeah - so, what did you get?" Seamus sounds suddenly awkward, but that is probably more likely to be related to the small piece of parchment in his back pocket rather than his chatting with her. She refuses to believe that _we_ includes Harry fucking Potter.

"What? You can't just say yes like that's not the weirdest sight since - oh yeah, they're passion fruit or something, I think proper kernels or whatever - but mate, since when are you talking to her?"

"I'm not. She just said hi. Let's go back to the table-" their voices fade, lost in the chatter and music around her.

Well.

*

"He's staring at you." Daphne is borderline yelling in Pansy's ear, making her wince, and the music is not _that_ loud. The golden-haired girl is still bopping softly up and down, like dancing is something you have to come off slowly, like she is cooling down a horse after galloping.

Naturally, Daphne spotted him moments after they exited the dancefloor, tugging at Pansy's hand and all but pointing. An incredible albeit annoying feat, considering her vision ought to be at least somewhat impaired from all the sparkling lights that have hit her eyes on repeat by now. Instead, she had a dazed sort of expression that reminded Pansy of Luna Lovegood, only _she_ never had to get high to sport that expression. Well, not to Pansy's knowledge at least.

So there they had stood, Pansy being forced - which is not a dramatic way of phrasing Daphne's insistent commentary - to take him in properly.

Watching the way his unruly waves had seemed to find some state of equilibrium around his head, the way his updated rounding metal glasses fit the wide shape of his jaw. How he'd broadened into his height, no longer skinny and borderline underfed, but strong, his triceps illuminated in the soft light dancing across his skin by the tables.

What an unexpected turn of events, Pansy had thought sarcastically. The perfect boy grew to look the part. She had seen before, of course, even if she had tried not to, on the front of newspapers before the articles ebbed into small _"Where is he now?"_ pieces without answers.

Then they were caught, like neighbourly cats in headlights, and Pansy had looked away in a flinching movement, quicker than she would have liked in order to keep up the appearance of _not caring_. It was petty, the way her train of thought so easily fell into old teenage habits.

"Well, who can blame him?" Pansy replies stiffly, widening her eyes at her friend and gesturing at her own outfit. In afterthought, she adds a smile.

And the thing is, she _is_ here wearing Muggle fashion, a black Balmain cowl slip and simple matching stiletto heels. It's a good look, the way the dress cups her small frame and spells out her modest curves.

Still, Daphne manages to look at her directly with all the impolite staring of a small child, and somehow her wide pupils are piercing and reflecting Pansy back at herself at the same time when she speaks:

"He doesn't look angry at all, love."

You really should just not let people get to know you at all. What a pain.

Pansy clears her throat and taps her nails against her hip in discomfort. "Right. Can we go?"


	2. Chapter 2

There is frost on the ground, on the tip of every still thing. Anything in movement or moved loses it, as if the last remnants of winter require patience of you.

Pansy holds a thorny branch out of her way as she pushes ambitiously through a relatively small hole between two hedges. The branch gets stuck in her hair, because of course, and- ugh.

Cursing loudly, she stumbles forward. More hair gets caught in the thorny branches she had been rather careful to avoid so far, and Pansy gives in to it, just forces her body forward and out on the other side whilst silently vowing to never use this forsaken fucking shortcut again.

It is an aching sort of pain; hair being pulled from the scalp. Pansy wishes she was more drunk so maybe it would not hurt as bad.

Wishes she would just let go already of this urge to visit graveyards in the middle of the night.

On the other side of the bush she impatiently fights the remaining branches around her head with her free hand, her vision entirely obstructed by threads of wild hair. Finally free, her body folds in on itself as if suddenly heavy. She lifts her other hand and the bottle of firewhiskey in it to her lips, looks up-

And freezes.

That is to say; freezes in motion, bottle at her lips with wild hair and a collapsed posture. There, on her claimed bench, he sits like he belongs, and- perhaps he does. It is probable, even, that he would be allowed to belong more so than her. And the Claiming of The Bench is unofficial, but still. Rude.

Trying not to blame him for every apparent symbolism related to his existence in her head, Pansy straightens and tugs a strand of hair behind her ear as if it makes a difference.

He looks at her like she is not real. Maybe like he is looking at a specter but is not scared of it.

She sort of wishes he was scared - instead his face is all soft surprise, illuminated golden by a single lamppost.

She sort of wishes she was a specter - instead she is raw and awake and corporeal.

Folding her face into a familiar sneer, Pansy finishes composing herself. "Are you kidding me," she poses without questioning in her voice. There are a thousand muted thoughts somewhere in the back of her head. Most of them want to leave. All of them want to survive.

Potter does not answer, just sort of blinks at her, like her being here made a sort of sense until she opened her mouth.

"This is my spot."

"What? Err," he shuffles, tugging at his ear and seemingly uncomfortable. His voice is hoarse. It makes him sound like he has not spoken in a while. It also sounds like- well. "This is a public graveyard," he continues, speaking up now.

"It's my spot, you're in my spot." She gestures at the bench with her bottle as if to make her point. He straightens at that and draws his eyebrows together, finally waking up.

"Funny how the word _public_ seems to contradict that. I believe there are limits to what even you can own, Parkinson."

There it is; sweet sarcasm. It tugs her back in time.

Maybe it is the alcohol; Pansy rolls her eyes and staunches forward. She should have drawn a wand, the way she sees him ready to do upon her approach, his stupid hand by his stupid holster. It's both an insult and a compliment, really. Instead, she sits down on the bench, leans forward and takes a swig from the bottle before placing her elbows on her knees.

"Why are you here?" he asks defensively.

She wants to straighten up, to leave, to never had sat down in the first place. To fix her hair and hold her head high.

It is just that she is so tired.

"I have friends buried here too, you know," she mumbles, looking out on the small heads of stones, untouched by anything but frost and maybe time, too.

He is quiet for a bit, and she can feel him shifting on the bench. Then, "You're friends with Seamus."

"Nope."

He sounds increasingly frustrated. "You were at the bar."

"It's a free country, Potter."

"You're drunk." He eyes the bottle, the detective.

" _Free_ country."

"How did you get here?"

"If you really ace apparition, the odds of splinching are remarkably boring," she says. "Besides, I feel there is a point to be made about stones and glass houses."

"I'm not drunk." It is the annoyance in his voice that makes her stomach warm. It sounds like childhood.

Pansy looks up at him from her private fog. She swears she watched him drink plenty just a few hours ago, not that she would ever admit it and thus incriminate herself. She looks at his green eyes and hollow edges and his relaxed, almost limp posture. He does not look drunk - he looks hungover.

She meets his eyes calmly for a minute; firewhiskey and the leftovers of something else make her uninhibited.

Knows in her bones that it is time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Draco and Blaise look so out of place at the Muggle club that it is, objectively - _objectively, dammit_ \- hilarious, both of them complaining about being there every two minutes like children asking "are we there yet?"

Pansy saying "so _leave_ , I've got this" has had little effect. Daphne does that to people; she can make a protector out of anyone. Even if these protectors are fucking useless.

The three of them are now sitting in a lounge area bathed in soft light and the occasional stray beam from the dancefloor, Draco sulking into his gin and Blaise checking his watch every so often. What men of action her boys are tonight.

Pansy picks at her nail polish and wonders when waiting politely becomes waiting recklessly, figures in the end it doesn't matter, because this is Daphne and privacy is a foreign concept.

That is how, after listening to another deep sigh and failing to strike up any measure of small talk, Pansy stands. "I'll check on her." She straightens her dress and throws her clutch lightly into Blaise's lap for safekeeping.

Immediately they're up, and she vaguely hears Draco say "I will get our coats" as she heads for the lavatories.

It is not like she is particularly interested in staying either; she hopes Daphne has merely fallen asleep on one of those counterproductive little benches next to the toilets like last time. She wonders, though, when this became her Fridays - lounging in Muggle nightclubs, or more private wizarding establishments, or Blaise's apartment. Wonders when they all lost direction, wonders if maybe she is the one without direction and the others are merely keeping her company on their way to bigger things.

The music pounds in her ears as she walks by the dancefloor; it fills her up and puts her heartbeat on speakers in her chest. Blinding lights makes the door in front of her fade in and out of view. Pansy pushes the thick metal door open, and the slim hallway in front of her is bathed in such a soft, red light that Pansy squints to adjust to the contrast. The noise behind her seems momentarily intensified before it fades as the door closes.

There is something deeper to be said about this moment; the rush of sensory input, the tingling in her head. But the moment being what it is, it escapes her.

Just then, she is blinded by the bright artificial lights of the men's lavatories as the door opens. Pansy stumbles, and-

He smells like smoke and earth, or mountains, or something steady.

She knows because she walked straight into him, and now-

He has grabbed hold of her arms to steady her. His hands are clammy but his chest warm.

Pansy looks up and knows instinctively, knows in a way she should not because they do not know each other, they do not have that level of history. Right, but she does, she knows and is confirmed by heavy black eyelashes and almond shaped eyes, their colour a light contrast to his dark skin in the red light.

"Hello," Pansy says and straightens.

"Hey," he says slowly, his eyes alternating between hers.

Pansy takes a step back, out of the smell of him.

He has that look in his eyes again as he lets her go only to grab lightly hold of a stray strand of her hair; like she's a ghost, a specter from somewhere far away. Like she's something that shouldn't be here.

He is also unmistakably drunk this time. _Drunk_ drunk, like Marcus Flint stumbling, swearing, taking down an entire tent at the World Cup drunk. It has frankly been a while since she has seen someone just good old-fashioned pissed up close, but here we have it. It is not pretty. He is, Potter is, of course, because she cannot catch a break. But the drunk is not.

Pansy steps to the side to get past him.

"You shou- d'you want a drink?" he slurs.

She turns back to see him leaning against the wall and wonders if he's being casual or if he needs to. Scans his face with its blurry gaze and shiny forehead. Wonders at her own desire to do something _objectively_ dumb as shit.

"Go home, Potter."

Pansy turns and walks to the women's lavatories without looking back.

She holds Daphne's hair, wipes her eyes and hums softly until she stops heaving into the toilet and they can finally leave.


	4. Chapter 4

May comes with fanfare, showing off the last of spring, with heavy showers of rain the only refuge from the mass of spreading pollen and smell of flowers. Pansy wants to love it, will soon enough, she just has to get tonight over with.

It has been exactly three years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and not showing at its anniversary gala is, in Blaise's drawl, "social fucking suicide". The scab from last year's event fell off her throat over summer, and she hopes the wounds will heal faster every year. Knows they are only ricochets from the past, really, and the past cannot hurt her, not according to her mother anyway.

Only what a load of erumpent shit, because the past manages to hurt all of them just fine, as evidenced by all of their fuckups and inability to move forward without stumbling back again. By how Draco has grown quiet and faces mostly inward now, how Daphne keeps throwing up in dirty bathrooms like there is something stuck in her stomach that just won't leave, by how Seamus Finnigan for all his honourable intentions and moral superiority is now a borderline addict. By how so many of them are dead and not coming back. By how "winning" still had to involve a backfire.

Not to mention by the tug in her stomach every time she sees Hogwarts Castle loom in the distance.

Today she wears a dark navy, almost black silk dress. It clashes with most wizarding robes, but she has grown oddly fond of Muggle fashion. She wonders still if it is too much - but then she is Pansy Parkinson, and people's definition of "modest" needs to be relatively broad to fit her in any case.

Her carriage is cast in deep shadows as the Castle towers above, and she can hear Greg tapping his foot nervously next to her. Blaise, on the other hand, looks comfortable still, his only slight giveaway being how he has turned the "bored" look up just enough to appear fake. Daphne looks perfect in a white square-necked gown, and also restless, and also subtly uncomfortable if you know her tells.

The night proceeds as expected. The Great Hall has been cleared of its usual long tables and filled with round ones and scary wide spaces. When they arrive, guests are streaming in - old students and parents, teachers, affiliated members of the Light, ministers and Important People. Pansy spots Rita Skeeter and her poor cameraman, as well as McGonagall and Flitwick who both appear older in a way that makes Pansy look away.

Draco joins their little team with his mother on his arm, and Pansy greets Narcissa politely before handing her coat to Blaise who offers to take it out. She thinks the woman has grown softer towards her with time and wonders absently if in another life Narcissa would have maybe forgiven her son for bringing a girl like Pansy home. Getting the acceptance of his parents was her biggest, most overshadowing challenge once.

Pansy grabs a flute of champagne and scans the room.

He is here of course, Harry Potter, in classic black dress robes next to a flourish of redheads. He looks as uncomfortable as she feels.

It is not that her eyes seek him out exactly, but -

Well.

Pansy smiles and greets and stays aware of her surroundings, sticking to _safe_ and trying to be casual about avoiding the routes of Molly and Arthur Weasley, or Luna Lovegood, or a few idealistic Ministry people her father's selling out means he no longer speaks with. She tries to be the colour of water, to blend in and adapt, to be polite and mouldable. Every time she looks up at the old high table, or at the hundred flowing candles, however, she is brought back to the realization that this is Hogwarts, and she keeps touching her neck as if to remind herself that there is not, in fact, an invisible set of hands choking her.

That she is not 17 anymore.

By the first speech, Greg has already left.

After, when McGonagall has bid them all properly welcome and Flitwick has a school choir singing a new rendition of an old Hogwarts song, Pansy backs away from her safe little fellowship and wonders if it is too early to go out for air - decides to find her coat and head out in any case.

As the cool evening quiet hits her, Pansy closes her eyes briefly with a sigh.

There is a rustle behind her, and Pansy turns. He catches her not off-guard per se - not here, she is not an idiot - but certainly by surprise, with a hand loosening his tie and an elusive smile on his face.

She wonders at the hollow of his eyes and the sharp cut of his jaw - if he just looks perpetually hungover by accident and no one has told him to get a shower and eat something, or if - is he drunk again? His eyes are piercing green though, and he is steady on his feet. Nothing about his body exudes under-fed or brittle.

"Sneaking off already?" he asks, smirking casually in spite of his tired eyes.

Maybe this is just a rough day for him too.

"Are you going to tell on me?" Pansy replies, tilting her head and playing along. She looks at the way he leans back and seems so at home here in the empty courtyard, and she cannot help herself-

Watches his lips twitch as he pulls the tie off completely. Watches his eyes trail over her. She wonders if he knows he is being obvious, Gryffindor-confidence and all.

"I talked to Seamus," he says instead of answering, stepping up next to her, and Pansy's surreal little bubble bursts.

"Ah," she says, looking out across the yard. It looks smaller than she remembers.

"I was wondering" he says and scratches his neck, looking straight ahead. Pansy only just manages to feel the sinking of her stomach, when he says - "If you might share."

Pansy lets out a lukewarm laugh. Blinks. "Look, I don't know what you have been told, but contrary to perhaps popular belief, I am not in the business of luring golden boys to the dark side." She wants to be angry, just a little, hopes it comes across even if she just feels cold, mostly.

He looks at her then, frowning. "I'm not-"

"You're literally the reason we're here." Prodding feels like home _._

He throws a hand through his hair, looking exasperated. "That's not- listen, I don't- I-"

_You don't what?_

"Never mind," he says.

He holds her gaze uncomfortably, his sudden shift to anger spellbinding her.

Pansy thinks about the important things, the- the fucking _consequences_ of it all, the ones he should be concerned with but seemingly is not, never calculating.

Later, she wonders when she faltered, when the lines blurred and she decided. If it was now. If she ever made a decision. If things just happen sometimes.

She empties her flute and places it on a stone bench. If this alternative universe is what she has in store for tonight, she will need more of that. Pansy can be a flirt, even with the Golden Boy; but Pansy, yea, Pansy is not fucking prepared for this. She looks up at him, tilts her head.

There is a sweet sort of earnest tinge in the spread of his sly smile, something almost sheepish and certainly boyish about the light in his eyes at the possibility of rule breaking. Beneath that there is a steady, casual confidence even in the face of stumbling, of failure or rejection, that few people have. It makes her-


	5. Chapter 5

The smell of soil, of earth, circulates in Pansy's nose, calms her, claims her.

She is supposed to wonder at the fact that they have left too soon, that he is, what, probably expected to do a speech, that two months ago she had not spoken to or even in the relative direction of Harry fucking Potter for years.

But the thing is-

The thing is, the more she sinks into the part of the corrupted Eve, dangling the Apple in front of him, the more she shrinks into a shell, watching herself living a backwards desire rather than truth. Rather than something that could maybe be real.

And if none of this is real anyway-

If she may as well _be_ the ghost-

Here she is, closing the door to the greenhouse behind them.

His eyes are illuminated by heavy moonlight and the faint colour of a few bioluminescent plants as they find hers, and her stomach has the nerve to act surprised when he does not move away.

_Perhaps this was a bad idea_ , she does not say, and he steps into her.

His lips are chapped on hers, not at all sloppy even as they almost miss the first time. The confidence in him turns to hunger the moment she leans in, and his hand on her back is pulling her more urgently towards him as he dips his head to meet her fully.

Pansy feels the pull of him in her navel more than anywhere else. There is a soft sort of pressure in her chest that makes her breath catch unevenly. Even so she kisses him back, curls her lip on his and hears him sigh darkly as he deepens the kiss with fervency. The fur of her coat tickles her neck.

She lifts a hand and wants to - _fuck_ , she wants to touch him, wants to suck and yank and pull it out of him, that soft confidence, that self-given permittance to stay, to be, but -

He pulls back just as Pansy leans further in, and she stops, both of them panting almost. His face is flushed, and her lipstick is everywhere, and he looks so alive now, nothing hollow at all about him.

The power in his gaze reminds her of Quidditch, of watching him close in on the Snitch as the crowd around her screams. She never cared for the sport, but she could watch the way it turns some people into a lighthouse of pointed intent, of yearning, of determination, and it would almost lessen her persistent insipid feeling.

"Right," he says hoarsely and clears his throat. He turns away and heads further into the greenhouse, ducking his head under a hanging vine.

Pansy is both here, steadying herself, and also far away already. The one here removes her coat and follows him. The faraway one hums a quiet tune.

*

Sitting on her coat between terracotta planters and piles of dried asphodel and fresh rosemary, Pansy makes a home in the dirt. She takes off her heels and places them next to her, lifts her knees to her chest and hugs her legs close as her feet dig into the warm fabric.

"First time," she asks with her head on her knees, watching him from the corner of her eye.

He frowns next to her. The top buttons of his white shirt is undone and his sleeves are tugged up past his elbows. What a mess to crease a dress shirt like that. "I've tried some Muggle stuff," he says and meets her eyes. She raises her brows at him and smiles.

"This," she says then and lifts her hand to show him a very small drop-shaped crystal vial with a clear, slightly shimmery liquid inside, "Is Fairy Dew." She eyes the bottle herself, moves it so the liquid catches the moonlight. "It will feel," she continues slowly, thinking, "perhaps like MDMA but better," she says, watching him again for confirmation. He nods, eyes fixated on the vial now. "A little bit like morphine but not as drowsy," she says, and knows. "A little bit like amphetamine but not as aware," she continues, licking her lips slowly, "A little bit like ketamine but only at first." She swallows when he just nods, staring still.

She knows. Understands the hollow in him by its absence. Knows the Snitch is not her; it is the vial.

"Okay," she says then, ever so gently as if she is trying to not scare either of them. She lowers her legs again as she uncorks the vial.

Pansy lifts it to her lips and swallows her part before holding it out to him. When he takes it, she leans her head back against the wooden working bench behind them and closes her eyes momentarily. Then, watching him throw his head back and empty the vial, she speaks on a smiling sigh;

"Don't be alarmed, wonder boy."

*

There are fairy lights dancing in her eyes like fireflies, only her eyes scatter.

"It's called the Haze," her voice calls from deep inside her chest.

Harry's hand is on her face, and she lets her mouth fall open when he caresses her cheek, swipes his thumb at her lip.

"I don't feel hazy," he says weakly and Pansy's laugh echoes into faraway dimensions.

His eyes are glazed.

She bites his finger slowly when it slips past her lips. His face is content as he retracts his hand, lowering it to touch the fabric of her dress.

She knows he cannot feel it. Knows it the way that she cannot feel anything at all, only -

A wave crashes over her, and Pansy pulls in a heavy breath when sensation returns tenfold and sets fire to her fingertips.

She picks a twig of dried leaves in her hand and crushes it, leaning her head back and closing her eyes from the stimulus - the smell, the sound, the touch.

She hears his breath turning faster, turning ragged, and knows the engulfing ocean has washed him ashore too, knows he is here with her now, and she feels _everything_ , only everything is -

Her eyes open and she wants to sigh with the way her heart beats in turn with the melody of a familiar stranger humming in her chest, and the way her eyes focus, only for a second, and sees dark lashes and green.

He leans over her, crawling, desperate now, and when his lips finally find hers and she is- is she on the ground? Why does she feel soft soil and grass underneath her, feels-

The smell of clean air wakes her to a new dream, and his trembling hands and ragged breath must be captivated by the same rush- otherwise how could he exist just in extension of her own flesh? The moon looks lonely and she wants to cry, but lonely cannot reach them here.

Everything, even the lonely, is good, so good so good so good.

He tastes like dissolve and absolution like she knew he would.


	6. Chapter 6

Pansy rarely spends August inside but here she is, wasting the warm summer air away in his bed more and more now. It is not like there is much else for her to do anyway. If Harry Potter wants to hold her hand and shit, well- frankly she is helpless, at least in private.

And he does, for some reason. She suspects it is the inevitable feeling of connection that comes with being high together the way they have been; he is conditioned into associating her with euphoria. She does not know if she minds, not when she lies here in his old, odd bed in this old, odd house, and-

Harry Potter's shoulder blades are warm and sweaty under her palms. She digs her nails in and forces her head back, deeper into the pillow, as he trails a hand down the back of her thigh, grabs hold and pushes her leg up towards her chest. He thrusts back inside her, harder now, deeper, filling her, and Pansy moans and closes her eyes, lets him watch her enjoy him.

At first he was careful, so gentle with her small frame like he was terrified she would break underneath him, but he knows now how she is brittle and how she is not.

Knows that there is nothing raw or hard-edged about this place of theirs that they go to, both of them see-through.

She does not care that it is not real, because if he is a specter too-

He fucks her harder and they lock eyes. There is determination in him again, in every movement, and he wills them corporeal almost. Then he kisses her, hard, claiming her, and Pansy gets lost in the motion of them, arches her back and squeezes, hears him breathe a _"fuck"_ between breaths and -

*

"What is that?" Harry asks, plopping down next to her on the old Boudeuse-like sofa that is prettier than it is comfortable, and well, frankly, it is also not very pretty, what with the state of it. He drags a hand through his thick hair and leans back leisurely. He has more than the shadow of a beard coming on, ragged and unkept, and his eyes- 

She is certainly not his mother and counting on feelings of concern in her should be misplaced.

This is how she can have him as she privately admits she would like to; at first, she would selfishly taste forgiveness on him, but all major sensations are temporary. Now she knows it is something else that she wants. Pansy gets greedy like that and sticks to what she can have, which is, well, flesh, she supposes.

She lifts the vial in her hand out of his reach and leans away from him with a smile as he tries to grab it from her. "Amortentia," she replies and watches him frown and retract his hands, amused at the impulsive child in him.

"I rarely say this, but maybe that's a bit excessive, eh?" he says only half-jokingly, eyeing the bottle.

"It's not for you to drink," Pansy says, trying to suppress a smile at the thought of his implication, curious at the fact that he does not seem truly wary of her. She turns her head and looks at him properly, glances over his glassy eyes and tight jaw.

His fingers are in constant movement, but never mind their restlessness and never mind his fast-beating drunk heart - she looks at the flush in his cheeks and the absent hollow in his gaze and the way he makes her feel wanted, even if it is a ruse; he seems as caught in the smokescreen as she is.

"Smell it," she says then, and removes the glass stopper. She watches quiet pleasure cross his face and wonders if anything else can compare to the way he pulls in a catching breath and frowns as he looks at her, pupils dilating.

"What would happen," he says with a strained voice, "if I drank this?"

"I would be forced to knock you out, Potter." She places a finger over the top of the vial to block the scent. 

He has a crooked grin, the mischievous kind, the kind that makes her softer than she cares to be.

The potion is meant to stimulate by scent; when they travel into another dimension together, everything is enhanced after all. It is funny how sensory overload can make you almost transcend from a feeling of fullness to a feeling of nothing at all. She suspects he likes that, and she likes giving it to him. She has nothing else to offer. 

"Good thing I have only poor experiences with it then."

"I'm sure you have," Pansy says, smiling with entertainment.

"I mean it. Someone tried to spike me once," he says, widening his eyes dramatically while simultaneously stretching casually and sliding down into comfort on the couch. As if his body needs to compensate for anything that does not look laid back at all times; like he cannot look anything but perpetually lazy, his mess of a hair like a languid lion's mane.

"Sure thing," Pansy says, trying not trying to suppress her smile.

"You don't believe me? I'm a war hero, Pans. I have fans."

"I know," she says, raising both her brows and smiling at him without conviction. The agitation works, only his grin grows along with his frown.

"You're unbelievable," he mutters and ruins the straight of her hair with his big stupid hand as he pulls her in for a kiss.

It is mundane enough.

But the thing is, mostly-

Mostly they are just trembling bodies.

His grey sweatpants are pulled down in no time at all and she straddles him right there on the couch, leaving the vial of Amortentia open on the table next to them.

He whispers _"God"_ when she sinks down over him, and she shudders on his cock; he swallows with her nipple in his mouth and her put-together face falls apart.

There is a flicker in his eyes, and he cannot hold her gaze; she is lost in his wide pupils, follows them wherever they go. Uncorks another vial, pops another pill to send herself where he is, heaving for air. When she finds him, she feels it again; that connection where she does not know the tips on her fingers from the skin of his abs.

"What did it smell like to you?" Pansy whispers breathlessly as he bites down on her shoulder.

He leans back and smiles at her so fully it is blinding, before he throws her down onto the couch and devours her.

They are both ghosts now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

She bad trips one night, sees monsters in the faded wallpaper as he holds her. He strokes her back and shushes quietly. All Pansy can think of is her own private shame and the uselessness of it; thinks of yelling at Daphne out of jealousy, of leaving Greg alone when she should have stayed, of _disappointment_ and how it takes the shape of her mother's face.

He puts on some old Muggle record that probably used to belong to someone else. He cooks her pancakes and tells her stories from the Gryffindor common room, and Pansy thinks of trying to hand him over in the Great Hall, thinks of saving skin, thinks of shedding it.

He puts down the plate in front of her and his smile is earnest even if his hand trembles when he lifts it to her face and pushes a strand of hair from her face.

"Hey," he says, "C'mere."

When she does not, he lifts her from the chair and carries her to his bed, tugs her in and places the plate of pancakes on the bedside table.

When she wakes from her half-slumber, the sadness has ebbed from her, replaced by something simpler, because-

Everything is ridiculous. It is ridiculous that she is here, that he has made her fucking pancakes.

She wants to push them on the floor so instead she stands, stalks through the room and turns. Empty whiskey bottles by the bed and drawn curtains, his broom thrown carelessly to catch dust. It is a fucking cliché is what it is, and she is standing right in the middle of it, both feeding it and being fed by it. He watches her helplessly from the edge of the bed with a restless scatter in his eyes.

As if he reads her mind, he blurts out; "I adore you-"

"No. No-" Pansy says firmly and blinks furiously. "Don't do that-"

"Pansy."

"No!" she yells. "You don't know that."

He swallows and stands "I-"

"No, shut the fuck up." Pansy crosses her arms and stares at the bed as he walks nearer, slowly, like she might bolt if he is not careful.

She should. 

He stops in front of her, raises his arms as if to grab her but drops them again.

"Pansy," he says again, quietly, and when she does finally look at him, he lets out a breath and leans in, kissing her gently, tasting like pancakes and alcohol.

She sticks to the bad choices because they are full of him.


	8. Chapter 8

There are nightmares. This makes sense, and Pansy lets him bury his face in her neck or take her on midnight walks to nowhere when they get too bad for him. She understands the restlessness to be grief.

It is when he throws his guts up and tries to hide it that she takes offense, or when he keeps upping his dosages or taking pills that she has no idea what even is.

It leaves her with the sneaking, noisy feeling that she has lost control of something she should be in charge of; something she feels responsible for.

Pansy throws the keys to her own apartment on a side table in the hall, removes her coat and heads upstairs. The bathroom smells like he has tried to pour out all the homeless love from his throat into the toilet bowl, and when Pansy enters the bedroom he is sleeping on the bed, shiny with sweat.

She used to worry that he might have a heart attack with how fast his pounding heart beats, but you can get used to anything.

Pansy merely watches him for a moment.

How did she get here - to this room, to Grimmauld Place with its too-narrow hallways and heavy drapes? How does she get out - of this withering house, when she never really wants to leave?

Pansy plans to spend Christmas back home at the estate. She knows Granger has been here again while she was gone, probably urging him to come to the Burrow. Maybe it will change something. Maybe the Weasleys will not let him go back here. Maybe an adult will take Broken Control out of her hands and say _here, it's all right now._

Maybe she will not scream and spit in their face and hold on anyway.

Pansy draws the blinds back with a flick of her wand and vanishes a few bottles and vials while Harry wakes, groaning. She lifts old dishes and sends them flying downstairs, opens a window manually and starts picking up dirty laundry from the floor. How strange that it would take Harry fucking Potter to make her start learning household cleaning spells.

"Hey," he says and Pansy turns to him as he sits up, smiling sheepishly at her with that mess of a hair and boyish grin even as he looks-

Smaller; disappearing on himself.

He stretches, flexing his arms behind his head and yawns. "You leaving for Suffolk?" he asks, blinking lazily at her.

"I am," Pansy says and sends the laundry flying as well.

"All right."

"When are you leaving?" she asks pointedly and eyes him, crossing her arms now that she has nothing to occupy them.

"Soon, I guess," he says and looks out the window at the already setting sun.

Vague and deflecting. She suppresses curling her lip.

Pansy watches him as he stands from the bed, slowly, worn-out like maybe he has been drinking again. It is the _maybe_ that keeps her pacified, she likes to think. It does not matter.

It is not like they are real.

She has been vocal about that, and so she cannot tell him to get it the fuck together. It is not her place; she has actively made it not her place.

Pansy watches him step past her to the bathroom, and when she hears the faint but unmistakable rustling of another caught, docile Snitch in the shape of a clinking vial, she does not speak. He comes out beautiful and alive after all.


	9. Chapter 9

It is New Year’s Eve when the tub flows over, figuratively and literally.

Pansy is in a dress the colour of metallic rust and sports a massive emerald ring as her only accessory. She has dug the ring out from her late grandmother's collection for a twirl only because she has finally perfected the type of sticking charm required for such an occasion - the occasion at hand being that she plans on getting fabulously, recklessly drunk for the first time in a while; the first time since alcohol started tasting bitter.

Pansy is not beautiful the way Daphne is, shining across the room from her; effortless and conventional, but she knows how to compensate - even someone with their head as far up their ass as Adrian Pucey seems to have noticed tonight.

She hates that it brings her shoulders back and down with confidence. Looking good should not be the gravitational point of which she turns, and it is not, but it feels good to be desired. Not massively or in an overshadowing way, just good. Even if she is not interested, not really, not even in Draco and his chiselled cheekbones. She wonders when this ridiculous thing happened where every time a man places a hand on her arm, her thigh, her waist, she feels abruptly uncomfortable.

Blaise's London studio bears a carefully designed sleek post-modern carelessness, but tonight it is covered in cheap glitter and sparkly streamers. Who the fuck convinced this guy, the one currently eyeing his guests like they are an unwelcome infestation of poltergeists, to invite mere acquaintances into his home when it took Pansy the better part of a year to even get the address in the first place? She catches his eyes, raising her drink in a toast.

Blaise walks leisurely up to join her, leaning against a kitchen counter. "Are you attempting to mock me from afar, Parkinson?"

"I would never," she swears and clinks their glasses before taking a sip of her drink. It is tangy and sweet. They watch the small crowd in front of them in the vast living area. Daphne is laughing wholeheartedly at something, tears in her eyes and flush in her cheeks.

It is funny how they seemingly prefer this, even Blaise - he could be on someone's yacht doing shots off the stomach of a Holyhead Harpy before taking a midnight swim somewhere off the coast of Papua New Guinea, but here he is. Fervently holding on to his youth like the rest of them with their tacky New Year tiaras that lets out bubbles or temporarily changes hair colour, and music that peaked in their fourth year of school playing softly in the background.

Granted, he might do any one of those other things as soon as tomorrow.

"Where is your boy toy tonight?" Blaise asks, stone-faced. Pansy blinks.

"Pardon?"

"Yea, like I'm going to dignify your obvious indiscretion with an elaboration."

Pansy purses her lips. _Condescending prick_. "I imagine he's with friends."

Blaise nods. "I invited McLaggen tonight on the condition that he and his friends keep the snow off my table. I'm pretty sure that was too much to ask, but consider this a heads up."

Pansy swallows. It is not that he knows, because this is Blaise and he is the last person to judge her for her choice of bed buddy, _cough, Ginny Weasley_ , and also the last to judge her for her less socially acceptable choice of poison. It is that she really hopes Harry does not show. It is childish maybe, but she cannot imagine him stepping over the threshold into her life much like she cannot picture herself in the Burrow. They have a place that is entirely their own, even if it is crooked and imperfect.

Midnight strikes with a cheer and Daphne pecks Pansy on the lips before running off to break up a heated argument between Draco and Pucey.

Just then, her stomach sinks when she spots sandy hair by the open door and sees Seamus Finnigan wiping his boots awkwardly. She cranes her neck but finds him alone.

Just as her frown deepens, he spots her and waves her over hurriedly, his expression unreadable.

Pansy empties her drink, cursing privately that she is still practically sober, and heads to Seamus who seems to be hiding halfway behind the door still. Pansy nods him out and shuts it behind them before instinctively folding her arms.

"Just the lass I was looking for!" he says with a pasted smile. Pansy merely raises an eyebrow, not buying the sudden enthusiasm when something entirely else is written in his eyes. "Right," he says, clearing his throat. "So. Don't be mad, yea? But we were sort of playing with hallucino- err, the hallu- err, you know what I mean, right?"

He is laughing nervously, and Pansy feels irritation prickle at the back of her neck.

"Anyway, just these little harmless mushrooms, tiny ones yea, from a fairy free area an’ all, but Harry, he - well, you know him - he-"

Pansy walks past him before he finishes his useless sentence, hears him stumble after her into the elevator.

"Where?"

"I- I can't apparate, it's-"

"At yours?"

"Yea, but-"

"What else did he take?"

"We're not sure-"

"Fucking _amateurs,_ " she curses quietly and can almost physically sense Seamus cowering beside her. She is not angry with _him_ , not really, but she has nowhere else to direct the fire in her belly right now, and Pansy has never been the sensibly reigned in type. She _is_ angry with Harry, and herself by extension, but also she just -

She predicted this is all. Predicting leaves a possibility of preventing.

She had not even really tried.

"Look, I would have got Hermione, but he just kept saying your name, and I know they've had bit of a falling out over Christmas, and- and yea-"

The moment they step outside into the crisp air of the first hours of January and across the anti-apparition wards, Pansy grabs hold of Seamus' forearm, closes her eyes and lets her focused magic take them North.

When Pansy opens her eyes again, she takes a step back, into Seamus who trips and nearly falls. Directly in front of them, McLaggen appears to be having a whole-hearted laughing fit, only it is- somehow out of proportion. Unnatural. He stumbles sideways, leaning against the brick wall of the building and slides down to bury his head in his knees as he soundlessly heaves for air, his shoulders hopping with laughter.

But never mind him; on the cold ground, Harry lays flat on his back, moving his legs and arms in a flowing, repeated motion. He stares directly into the sky, mumbling incoherently, and when Pansy gets closer, she sees his hands shaking uncontrollably.

Pansy steadies herself, watching him. Tries calculating her chances of getting him to go to bed, wondering if this was all Seamus brought her over for; she has seen worse. Also better, but everything is relative.

"Hey Potter," Pansy says, trying not to ruin the happy high in him. "Whatcha’ doing down there?"

He looks directly past her, still mumbling, his uneven breath showing in the cold air.

"Come again?"

"He's been making snow angels for an hour," Seamus mutters behind her.

There is no snow. It would be funny if he did not have _fucking tragedy_ written on his trembling face, his olive skin turning grey in the cold.

"Let's get him up," Pansy says, shooting a glare at McLaggen who is clearly disinclined to help. A few people walking past look a little too interested, so she sends her best glare in their direction too. Luckily, they appear far too drunk to notice that they are watching a king among celebrities.

Together they lift him up by the arms and drape him across their shoulders. Seamus carries most of the weight while Pansy tries to steer.

Harry seems to look at her then, his head hanging unsupported below hers.

She still has no fucking clue what he is trying to say.

"For the Boy Who Lived Twice, you sure are dead set on wasting it," Pansy mumbles at him as his legs fail to find footing.

"Sm'times I think maybe I should've go- on that train."

"Train? What train? You need to get it together, mate," Seamus huffs.

They are almost at the front door with a dazed and confused Cormac in tow when Harry jerks as if waking and the three of them trips sideways into the wall, the weight of them crushing Seamus who yelps in response.

It is ridiculous. _Comical_.

So ridiculous that Pansy cannot help but laugh, contributed to by Cormac's somehow contagious even if unsettling convulsions.

Just then, a flash of light goes off, blinding her momentarily. In confusion, Pansy raises her free arm in front of her face to protect it from the return of the flash when she sees a camera and then not much else.

Seamus must have noticed it too, because he yells something and yanks them forward, inside. It is not until the heavy door has slammed shut behind her that Pansy really breathes again, thinking solely of what the camera surely caught and in doing that wrote in stone; a laughing Pansy dragging the half-dead Saviour from the gutter.

It is not Seamus' voice she hears when they reach his door but the rush of her own panic crashing like waves in her ears. If she is lucky it will only make for a feel-good-if-slightly-on-edge story about how Harry Potter celebrated entering the new year. Otherwise-

It will be a glaring mirror; the idea of it already is. Pansy swallows her pounding heart down and focuses on the task at hand.

They bring him to the bathroom and Pansy helps direct him into the tub where he stays just as they put him, his eyeballs almost lolling back into his head. The air has gone out of him entirely, but his pulse is steady, too fast for him to really be asleep.

Pansy turns on the tub, not really caring for the temperature and opting to spell the water warm on him. Seamus goes to deal with Cormac, and she is left to slap Harry's face gently, weighing the pros and cons of calling for medical aid. She imagines they would only monitor his vitals while he recovered to avoid overdosing him, and the risk of media attention- well.

It is when his lids finally move and he looks at her with those glassy, dead eyes, that she sees -

He is not beautiful at all; not alive, nor a specter like her, like she selfishly wanted him to be, he is just dead.

An inferi in front of her, skin turned to ash. And she knows now.

She knows it is time to leave.

His lips move, and he blinks dazedly at her, tilting his head towards her as it leans against the edge of the tub. He swallows, and Pansy finds herself mesmerized still.

"It’s not your fault," he whispers hoarsely, coughing after the last syllable. Pansy clenches her jaw and blinks.

She stays; stays for hours until his heartbeat has calmed down, until he quits throwing up or pissing his pants, until she does not worry that he might use again and die from it all this time.

When January's tired light comes and he finally sleeps, Pansy stands and stretches. She dries her wet cheeks and leaves the apartment, writes Hermione Granger a brief to-the-point letter, then sleeps.


	10. Chapter 10

Compartmentalizing has never been Pansy's strong suit, but she knows how to scrub her body clean and stuffs the last year of her life into the cupboard of things she is learning how to leave behind.

The article she pictured in her mind after New Year’s Eve never came, but it did not have to. The flash of the camera had been a mirror; had illustrated what she needed to see.

She is meticulous now - makes up for a temperamental, changing mind by working hard and being careful.

For example: She burns his letters without opening them. She is smart like that. There are only a few of them anyway.

Another example: She spends all of January at the estate, delving back into the sort of work her mother wants her to do, the kind she will probably leave behind again once she is done trying to make some sort of amends.

_Smart._

When she is back home in her flat, she gives the concierge strict orders to turn away any and all Harry Potter-lookalikes at the door without telling her - she does not know if he might actually show up and does not flatter herself; it is merely about being _certain._ Self-preservation and all. Addicts can be persistent.

It also saves her from unwanted conversations, ones that she has had in her head already. It saves her from thinking things like _I know you've been through a lot_ and _I don't want to be something you go through_ and having the opportunity to say them and then not. And the thing is, she would not say them. People have often mistaken her fiery attitude for bravery when it has never really been anything but temper.

Drawing a wall between them this way seems fitting enough. He is a bright boy; he will figure it out.

She sticks to private company - if she attends the occasional gathering, it is the discreet kind, the kind that has been approved by Blaise, the kind with a strict guest list. She lets beautiful and arrogant Adrian Pucey kiss her and only feels shit about it for a day, as if her body is becoming her own again to do with as she pleases.

Only she catches her mind trailing. It tells her how he was good, how underneath the trauma and grief he was so good, he-

It does not matter.

Pansy receives a letter from Granger one day. It is short and written in a crisp cursive that reminds her of Draco. She scans it, gets distracted by a small chip in her nail, and the letter ends up discarded on her desk for a week before she remembers.

It is in her hand now as the April sun sets behind her, sending warm light though her large windows. It is a response, of sorts, to the one she penned herself in January and details briefly how action has been taken. _In case you would care to know._

Pansy would not, so she throws it away and proceeds with her day. She is in the midst of getting ready for a late dinner with Draco and hopes he can refrain from sulking into his food for at least an hour. Honestly, she wonders sometimes if the reason the two of them hold onto each other is more about a reluctance to let go of something that used to feel like home, something that smells like nostalgia, rather than anything else.

She gets dressed in a beige spring dress, flowy and expensive, and wears her hair down.

Heads to dinner and spends her evening surprisingly entertained by Draco's sarcastic drawl.

Is reminded of where she belongs.


	11. Chapter 11

It is that fucking time of year again. May comes crashing sooner than she expected; sooner than she is ready for it.

Pansy dons another of those long, flowy dresses, draws the leisurely look formally together with a crisp, well-cut hairdo and pearl earrings. Reuses last year's coat after extensive cleaning. She supposes she outdoes herself in the meticulous planning of her outfit so as to take charge of one of the few things that she _can_ control this evening.

She shares a carriage with just Blaise and Greg this year - Daphne is bringing a date. There is an odd atmosphere of déjà vu in the air. She wonders if the others feel it too - it is positively ominous. Greg is surely feeling _something_ , the way he chews away at his fingernails. Then again, she has seen him do less due to an upset stomach, so who really knows.

She is certainly not about to ask now - worse timing, for any of them really, could probably not be found.

Trying to shake off the setting sensation in her bones, Pansy feels the familiar tug in her stomach at the sight of the castle in the distance. This event, the tradition of it - it makes her rethink her year since last. She thinks of accomplishments and evolution, of the epidermis she has left behind as she shed her skin; wonders at the size of it, of her, of whether she is any different at all.

Now, on Hogwarts' doorstep, is not the time to get bloody nostalgic though. At least she is not going through tonight alone, although if she is being honest - nowhere does loneliness hurt more than among others.

Blaise holds out his hand in default, letting her grasp it as she escapes the carriage. Just behind theirs another has come to a halt, and Ron Weasley is helping Hermione Granger in a similar fashion.

The other girl locks eyes with Pansy and _smiles_ , and- nope.

Pansy turns to follow the others inside, not waiting around to unpack any of that.

The evening's mood seems suddenly very set in stone. There is something imminent catching up to her.

Just as she reaches the main doors, a wide hand on her shoulder beckons her to turn, and- _fuck me._

See, the thing is, she knew she would see him here - obviously, it is not as if there had been a massive obituary with his name on it in the Prophet. Frankly such a thing would probably send the nation into a period of collective mourning and black-wearing, which, you know, what a hassle.

She had just sort of imagined it to be across the room at a safe distance at first, not abruptly right here in her face, too close for comfort by any measure. But the stupid Saviour never seemed to know what personal space was, not with her at least.

He looks-

Well.

Better. The hint of gold in his olive skin has realized its potential and turned a brilliant tan as if he has just been on holiday, as if the sun just loves him that much. Pansy tries pathetically to correct her own stream of thought in order to remain objective. _What a healthy flush in those cheeks - good for you._ He has filled out into his body again as well, physically taking up the space of his steady surety.

But then his eyes are full of something infinitely heart-breaking, and Pansy has to look away.

"Hello," she says and plasters on a smile.

Harry nods to the side and she follows him a few paces, just enough to allow for a sort of privacy without leaving her area of comfort entirely.

"I was hoping you'd show today," he says and draws a hand through his unruly hair like he always does when he is uncomfortable.

"Yup," Pansy just says, staring at a point on his collar. May has come warm this year, and he has already discarded his outerwear. Pansy sinks deeper into herself as if her own coat may hide her. When he does not speak, however, she looks up to find him seemingly staring at just that: her coat.

"I should head in-" she says and begins to turn, when he finally clears his throat and speaks up.

"I wanted to say that I'm really sorry. For - err, wiping my instability off on you." He grimaces and meets her eyes. "I tried to… but you know that. Then I wanted to have something to back my rambling, so here it is," he says, tugging familiarly at his tie, not quite reaching whatever point he might have wanted to make.

Pansy swallows and nods. "That's great." With that, she turns to walk back the way they came towards the now crowded entrance, thinking of everything and nothing at all.

Enough now.

She does not look back; heads inside and then refuses to look in his general direction at all. She has witnessed his puppy eyes before, and she never fucking wanted any of this. She just needs his desire to ease his own self-conscience or worse - hers - to resolve itself so she does not have to be on the painful, humiliating receiving end of it.

Involuntarily, she feels her heart pounding in her chest.

The rush in her ears blocks out McGonagall's speech, and she stays on Blaise's arm for support most of the evening, until suddenly, somehow, Pansy finds herself back in the stupid courtyard as if pulled.

The air is almost warm still, the courtyard a shielded pocket protected from the tugging Scotland winds by the old halls surrounding it.

There is the faintest buzz of magic in the air. Behind her, a shuffling and the magic tightens, pulling at the hair by the nape of her neck.

Pansy blinks and wakes. Realizing her erroneous move in coming here, she turns to rush back inside, only to find and face what was somehow irrevocably impending after all.

He stands there underneath an archway, hands in his pockets and a casually appraising look on his face.

He does not look like a puppy at all. Not sheepish. Not even apologetic anymore. She tries to let annoyance kick in; this is usually an ally of hers.

"What do you want, Potter?" she asks in frustration, seeing as he does not appear inclined to move in the slightest.

"You know that by now, Parkinson, I'm not exactly the ambiguous type."

"I don't _-_ what _?_ "

He clears his throat and shrugs calmly without removing his hands from his pockets. There it is again; that gentle confidence in the face of anything, both pissing her off and making the pit of her stomach squeeze tighter. "I thought about it, and, yeah."

Pansy blinks.

The thing is, he is not. Ambiguous, that is, despite his poor vocabulary expression.

"That is ridiculous," she states, directed both at his statement and the meaning she has trouble comprehending, even if it is written honest and green in his eyes. Even if she reads it like a soft cursive on his frown, on the way his breath almost staggers in spite of him. She wonders if he reads her just as easily. 

"I know."

"You're high."

"I'm not."

"Drunk," she directs.

"I've been under pretty strict surveillance in there, so also no." The edge of his mouth lifts in a self-deprecating smirk.

"That's new," she stings.

At that, he closes his eyes; "Yeah."

"How is that going for you?"

"It's- getting easier."

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and Pansy cannot help but watch him. "That's good. You should keep that up."

"Yeah," he just says again, tilting his head at her.

She hates the scrutiny. It is as if with every calm breath he draws, hers get agitated, until the air holds enough pressure to make her scream, or cry, or apologize furiously until he leaves her alone, until he realizes his preposterous suggestion is not just that but also _unreal._

And they were done with that; the unreal. She has been trying so hard to be done with that.

She was something that haunted him, and now he is alive and well and- she hates, _hates_ that all he has done is apologize. That her shame is not reflected back at her at all.

Pansy blinks her thoughts away and decides to make a run for it. She steps forward, intending to pass him. He steps to the side and lets her, only-

"Pansy," he says, turning after her, his voice dropping an octave even with the soft desperation of it.

She stops, fire burning in her throat at his polite insistence. She suddenly gets the instinct to hurt him, wants to kick and hex, wants him to get angry too.

"Stop, you need to _stop-_ " she says quietly instead and turns back to him.

There is a deepening frown on his forehead now, and she can feel thunder in his gaze. _Good._

"Pansy, for fuck's sake-" he starts, stepping forward, only for her to vigorously push his reaching arms away, the catharsis of violence unclogging her chest with force-

"I don't fit!" she says finally, stilling him in his motion of trying to grab her angry hands. "I don't - _fit_ \- in this life of yours!"

At that the thunder sets him alive, his face twisting into a grimace. "What- when I was rolling around in the goddamn gutter, you seemed to fit fine!"

"Exactly!" Pansy gestures in exasperation.

"So you only want to be around miserable people, or people deemed worthy of misery, hmm? That get you off? Want me to go fetch Malfoy, he looks positively _glowing_ with constipation tonight," he all but yells.

It is quiet when she does not meet his challenge, only stands there breathing, frantically blinking at the realization that her eyes are wet.

As if he reads her mind, he speaks, calmer:

"You are not as terrifying as you think, Pans."

And Pansy knows that her awkward, broken desire for punishment needs to be put to rest, but- she swallows and does her best to not tear up entirely, finds herself sniffing anyway.

Feeling herself starting to scatter and go somewhere else in her mind, she blinks and looks away. "Fine, look, can we just go inside now, please."

Faced with her faltering facade, Harry takes a step back. "Yes. Okay. Yes, of course."

She turns again towards the archway, reminded of another time in this very place. Both of them had entirely different intentions then.

Pansy wonders if had she known- had she known all of this, would she have said yes that day still?

She is through the archway, closing in on the open door with him just in her heels, when she breathes, _knows_ and- decides.

She turns once more with force and steers directly into him, awkward and surprised at the sudden impact when he catches her in her stumble.

Then she kisses him, faster than she has time to think, to re-decide, to leave and go somewhere far away, tired of the humming in her heart when it is living things that matter.

Her trembling lips stumble across skin. He meets her instantly as if he always saw her coming, with an unparalleled fervency, tasting like mountains. His hands find her waist and steadies her, pulling her closer into his embrace.

He kisses the impossible away.

It is raw, and sober, and- alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered leaving it after chapter 9 but I guess I'm a sucker for happy endings. Thank you for reading.


	12. Epilogue

It takes convincing, the whole idea of them.

She claims that it felt like magic before because it _was_ , because they lived in an altered reality made to make every sensation feel tenfold. To counteract her argument, he licks a circle around the taut of her nipple and mutters that she needs to shut up.

Later, she crawls into the nook of his shoulder and pulls the white sheet closer around them. He has cleaned the room, the cliché of it stark and telling; changed the curtains and left them open, ripped off the stained wallpaper and painted the walls. His broom is mounted properly, and the clutter in sight is just an empty mug and a plate on his desk across the room right next to a single vial: Pansy tensed momentarily when she first saw it but merely watches it now, the odd concoction that she brought herself once; Amortentia.

"Still want to know what it smells like to me?" he says quietly against the top of her head, surprisingly perceptive.

Pansy nods.

"Just like this," he whispers, voice raw, sucking in air with his face against her hair.

She closes her eyes and draws in an uneven breath.

"I mean, also a bit like Quidditch."

Pansy lets out a choked laugh.

"But, you know, I don't mind _not_ smelling broom wax and grass every time we shag, so I'm good without."

She shifts and smiles against his chest. There is something to be said about how she is simultaneously scared and calmer than she has been in a long time.

"Frankly it was starting to get a bit Pavlovian whenever I got on my broom-"

"Shut up," Pansy says, pinching his very-real stomach and laughing when he yelps.


End file.
